


To Be Human

by JJCross



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Awkward Kissing, Coming In Pants, Gorbeau House, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2307674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJCross/pseuds/JJCross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Gorbeau house, Valjean is not able to escape because he’s wounded. When Javert arrives to arrest the gang Patron-Minette, he finds himself faced with a dilemma: to follow his duty to the law and arrest the old lag, or follow his conscience and render assistance to a man who could bleed to death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Human

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for a Valvert Gift exchange, and was first published on fanfiction.net, but I really liked how it turned out so I decided to post it on here finally :) As it says in the summary, this takes place when Javert bursts into the Gorbeau House where Thenardier and his gang were trying to torture Valjean for some money. Hope you enjoy!

Javert’s heart trembled and his brain shut down momentarily. It was an instantaneous reaction; outwardly no one could sense the inner turmoil of the Inspector, he was as stoic and professional as ever. But for someone familiar with the mien of Javert, they’d notice his nostrils flare and his cheeks lose their color. His light grey eyes widened in his disbelief, his shoulders went stiff and a sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Outside he was the picture of calm, but inside was the raging anxiety, surprise and joy of a starved wolf. 

“Sir?” Javert blinked and the fog cleared in his mind as quickly as it had come. The inspector looked up from the report he had been writing, the tip of the pen hovering just above the page where he had been previously finishing the stroke of a T. “What should we do with him, sir?”

“What should we do?” Javert mumbled quietly, his voice close to hysterical. Was the officer mad? What else would they do with a convict who was supposed to be dead but somehow escaped prison? 

As he stood from the table, Javert saw the front of Valjean’s shirt and remembered what the officer had told him before. The man was injured. 

The buttons of Valjean’s jacket were popped, revealing the faded shirtsleeves below, which had a dark red spot right above the man’s heart, near his broad shoulder. Nasty bruises were blossoming on the tanned skin of Valjean’s jaw and cheek. Obviously he’d tried to resist the gang but hadn’t managed to escape before the police entered the room.

Javert looked over the man before him, who seemed calm enough despite his rapidly rising and falling chest, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Carefully, Javert pulled back the man’s shirt, peeling fabric from blood and sweat. The man winced but Javert paid no mind, inspecting the wound intently. It wasn’t deep enough to kill, but if the bleeding didn’t stop soon the old man wouldn’t last long. 

Javert had half a mind to make the command now. To reveal this man’s true identity and order his officers to arrest Valjean, drag him off to jail where he should have already been. This man was a criminal, who stole and lied and ran and hid, who cheated his rightful punishments. He deserved no kind of mercy in this life after all he’d done. None what so ever. Criminals like this man shouldn’t be treated kindly for they weren’t human, just a corrupt soul that would continue to break the rules time and time again. It was in his nature. Once a man turned from the law, abandoned all regard for order and justice, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, become righteous once more. But Javert wasn’t a monster, and he wouldn’t be cruel. The man needed help first.

Javert gripped Valjean’s arm fiercely and felt the man flinch slightly again, probably not from pain this time despite Javert’s crushing hold.

“I’ll take care of Monsieur,” Javert said, his mouth souring at the honorific directed at the criminal. “Take the rest of them to the station. I’ll be over quickly.”

The officer nodded and called the command to rest of the team, who quickly began herding the gang out of the wrecked hovel, swears and muttered threats bouncing around the room. Javert’s eyes followed the exiting group, but Valjean’s never left the ground between his feet. As the final men left, Javert nodded and looked back to the old man before him. 

It had been a fairly simple assignment. A tip off had been given from a young student that the Parton-Minette gang was planning a heist in the Gorbeu house. Javert had been excited, finally able to trap the notorious gang and put them away! The student must have been too scared or hadn’t bothered to show up because no warning shot as they’d agreed went off, so Javert’d took the initiative, which seemed to have been a good move. The gang had just been about to escape out the window, but better than that, he’d managed to entrap an even bigger rat within the group of mice. This man, who’d been feared in the yards of Toulon, who’d committed crime after crime, even managing to escape prison indefinitely, was now caught once more.

Javert studied the man beside him, reveling in his victory…he’d finally caught him, this man who had once been held so high, who had had an entire town believing and worshiping him, and now seemed so aged. So white and pale and tired. It’d been nearly a decade since he’d last seen the man formerly known as Madeleine, who had tricked Javert and then escaped him. But it was all over now.

“Javert…why didn’t you…”

Valjean’s voice drifted away as Javert opened his shirt again, wider this time to better inspect the injury. “You must be taken to the hospital.”

“No,” Valjean spoke hastily; attempting to step away from the officer but Javert’s grip was still bruisingly tight on his arm. “No, Javert. Not the hospital.”

“You’re going to bleed to death. You must be treated,” Javert said simply.

Valjean didn’t say anything for a while. Then he looked up to Javert with a desperate look. “Not the hospital.”

Javert sighed in exasperation. He was willingly offering the man time to heal before charting him off the jail forever and he was making things difficult! “What’s so wrong with the hospital?” Javert asked although he himself didn’t particularly enjoy the hospital. All they did was fuss and charge two weeks pay while forcing him to sit in a stiff smelly bed.

Valjean didn’t speak again, once again grating against Javert’s already paper thin nerves. “Come on,” Javert ordered, his voice not allowing for any arguments as he steered Valjean out of the room. Valjean stumbled and looked to Javert pleadingly. “We’re not going to the hospital,” Javert said between his teeth. 

The white haired man seemed to relax slightly but not by much. Javert could still feel Valjean’s arm muscles flexed and taunt under his gloved fingers as he led him down the stairs and outside. The man beside him was pure strength and muscle, even after all this time. If he wanted, he could easily escape Javert’s grip and overpower him. The thought made Javert’s heart turn cold. The only reason the man hasn’t yet was most likely due to his injuries.

As they walked down the dark streets, Javert heard Valjean panting, his steps stumbling slightly every now and then. Whenever Javert glanced over at the old man, he could see the pain in each of Valjean’s steps and saw the man clenching his left arm. 

The pair made their way into the dirtier streets, where thieves and gamins ran the roads and skinny women in rags ruled the corners. Valjean looked around slowly, his right hand moving from his arm down to his pocket reflexively. Javert’s grip tightened. Valjean looked to him weakly, dark circles under his eyes, his face pale like the moon and sickly. He smiled wryly, “It’s just spare coins.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, and directed them down a particularly tight alleyway. They passed a man holding an empty bottle, leaning over with one hand against the brick wall, retching smelly liquids on the ground. 

“Where are we going?” Valjean asked quietly. Javert heard the slight hesitation in the old man’s voice and smirked, choosing pointedly to ignore the question.  
He continued down the alley, turning left and walking up to a worn out building. Javert entered and started up the stairs just as an older woman exited from her home, spying the Inspector. 

“Oh Monsieur, you’re back early…” she trailed off slightly upon seeing the man Javert was dragging upstairs with him. Javert ignored her and opened the door at the top of the stairs.

Valjean stumbled in after the younger man, looking around quietly. “This is your home.”

“Very perceptive,” Javert commented dryly, releasing Valjean reluctantly and locking the door of the apartment. Javert turned back to see Valjean awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, seeming relatively out of place, looking around him in rapt interest. Javert cleared his throat and gestured to the chair by the table and he went to find the box of medical supplies. Since Javert hated the hospitals, he’s long since learned how to treat himself after a particularly nasty work day. 

Quickly returning, he placed the box on the table, which Valjean eyed skeptically. 

Javert gestured to Valjean as he opened the box. “The jacket.”

Valjean hesitated, glancing at Javert a moment. Then he reached up and starting shrugging off the jacket. He winced sharply, eyes shutting as he moved his shoulders, struggling to remove the article. Javert watched for a few achingly long moments as he prepared the needle, but it soon became painful.

He moved closer to the struggling man, putting his hands on the man’s arms to still him. “Sit forward,” Javert instructed, which Valjean hesitantly obliged to. Javert moved his hands to Valjean’s shoulders, gently pushing the thick jacket down. He felt Valjean’s quick breath against his neck as he pulled the sleeve out and then the second one. He folded the coat and draped it over the back of the chair. Javert then started unbuttoning the vest, causing Valjean’s breath to hitch. He quickly removed that article of clothing and paused to eye the stained shirt sleeves. The blotch of red was noticeably bigger than before. And Valjean was getting paler. He needed to act quickly.

Javert went to unbutton Valjean’s shirtsleeves and noticed his hands were shaking slightly. Strange. Javert wasn’t one to be squeamish around blood and injury. He couldn’t afford to in his line of work. So it wasn’t nerves. On the third button, Javert was forced to concentrate solely on the buttons before him or he’d fumble. Slowly, more of the tanned criminal skin was revealed, button by button. A broad chest of rough white hair. A flat stomach made of taunt muscle. This man lost none of his strength since his prison days. The thought caused another flutter in Javert’s chest which he rightly ignored.

The Inspector pulled the shirt from Valjean’s waistband and finished unbuttoning the shirt. Slowly he peeled the shirt from the half wet, half drying blood. Valjean shut his eyes. “Lean forward,” Javert instructed again. Valjean complied immediately, leaning forward so fast his mouth hit Javert’s neck.

“Sorry,” he murmured against hot skin and Javert shivered. His hands, which were still shaking much to the stern Inspector’s frustration, moved against broad shoulders as he helped the old man out of the shirt. His fingers traced lightly over the bulged muscles as he pulled the sleeve off the right arm. Upon pulling the sleeve from the left, Valjean winced and pulled his arm away. 

Javert paused and then pulled Valjean’s arm back towards him, carefully pulling off the sleeve to reveal a nasty burn on the forearm of the man. Javert gasped at the brutality these men must have showed Valjean.

“Why were you in that house?” Javert asked, throwing the ruined shirtsleeves to the ground carelessly. He pointedly ignored the shirtlessness of the man before him, turning back to the medical box on the table.

“I was giving them money for rent and the family,” Valjean said quietly. 

Javert snorted. “Really?” he asked skeptically. “That really looked like a touching family.”

“It was a man, his wife and two daughters. You saw the state of their home. I was bringing money, but the man wanted more.”

“He’s part of a notorious gang,” Javert said, taking out the alcohol and uncorking it, dripping some on a cloth. “It’s a wonder you even got out alive…” Javert chuckled, thinking of the brute force of Jean-le-Cric against some street ruffians. “But from the bruises I noticed on them, I’m sure you gave them--” Javert paused as he turned back to the man in the chair. “Wait…two daughters?” Valjean nodded and Javert was momentarily distracted from the convict before him, thinking back to the Gorbeu House, where there definitely had been one young girl. He’d have to inform the station and search the streets for the other girl later on…

Looking back to Valjean, Javert asked, “So why were you really there? Helping out with some scheme and they needed muscle? An escape attempt, though of course you were never much good at those…”

Valjean looked to Javert in confusion but his face quickly turned to pain as Javert pressed the damp cloth to the open wound by the white haired man’s shoulder. Valjean gasped and jerked backward, his arm muscles tensing as he gripped the chair arms roughly. Such strength…

“It was as I said,” Valjean muttered between his teeth. “I was acting as a philanthropist.”

“Hah, a convict acting as a philanthropist? A benefactor of the poor?” Javert scoffed but was reluctantly reminded of a certain mayor he had acted under for nearly five years. “Impossible. You don’t give, you steal.”

Valjean was silent as Javert put away the cloth and took out the needle and thread. “I’ve changed Javert. I’m not the man I was, or the one you’ve believed me to be.”

“Oh, have you really changed? A man who stole and lied and committed fraud, who escaped prison twice and ran from the law all his life? Sorry, I hadn’t realized,” Javert snipped quietly, facing Valjean’s injury. He instructed Valjean to straighten his back, pointedly ignoring the flex of stomach muscles and the wince the old man gave. Carefully, Javert began stitching the injury, Valjean not making any sounds of discomfort. Javert’s fingers working quickly and surely, no longer shaking as he concentrated on the task.

“You don’t like hospitals much either, do you?” Valjean asked, his voice low but booming in the silence of the room. 

“Unless I’m unconscious, I can take care of myself better than they would, and I don’t cost half my savings,” Javert replied, not taking his eyes off the injury as stitch by stitch the wound closed. 

Valjean looked around them. “You don’t make much. You’d think the police would have a better salary, considering the danger they put themselves into on a regular basis.”

“Are you actually defending the police, Valjean?” Javert asked with the smallest of smirks. “Considering you’re going back to jail once this is done…”

A pause, and then, “All those people, all of them dying every day…” Javert paused on the last stitch, glancing up at the old man’s face in confusion. Valjean spoke quietly, thoughtfully, almost to himself. “I had opened that hospital in my own home, so I saw the occupants and procedures regularly, especially once I started visiting Fantine.” At that name, Javert realized Valjean was once again talking about hospitals. 

“So you’re scared of hospitals now, because of what happened all those years ago?” Javert questioned, quickly finishing the stitching, cutting the thread with his teeth.

Valjean chuckled almost bashfully. “It’s kind of selfish but I just hate seeing so much suffering in one place. I know hospitals are supposed to comfort and heal, but I’ve seen so much suffering there and…” Valjean trailed off and Javert watched him. The last time he’d seen this face, so melancholy and thoughtful had been by that whore’s bedside as the old convict had kissed her lifeless hand. Of course it had all been an act, a charade the convict had put on to try and get mercy and sympathy out of the police. No such luck. 

Javert gripped Valjean’s wrist. The man flinched but didn’t pull away. Javert chuckled as he inspected the harsh burned skin. “What did you do to force them to brand you?”

“I did it to myself.”

Javert looked into the old man’s face and saw a defiant, determined set of brown eyes boring back into his. Javert was struck for a moment by those eyes, those eyes that had been filled with such anger and hatred in Toulon, so rebellious and smart as they challenged the young guard. Those eyes that had turned gentler and older, that commanded respect from his Inspector and caused civilians to trust him, but that had still held that glint of mischief and challenge. And even now, as tired and melancholy as they were, the eyes of someone always running and hiding, of someone who’d lived a quiet life these past years, they still held that flame, the spark that revealed Valjean to Javert time and time again, no matter the length of time or physical changes. It was that spark that never changed.

“Why would you do that?”

“They weren’t going to beat me,” Valjean said, his voice itching in the back of Javert’s mind, reminding him of the convict from years past. “They are villains and no matter what they did to me, I wasn’t going to let them win. So I showed them I wasn’t afraid, and that they couldn’t hurt me.”

Javert stared at the convict in silent astonishment and then laughed heartily. Valjean seemed taken aback, as most did when Javert laughed. It was so sudden and so violent, his face resembling a tiger attempting to smile. “To prove a point, you lacerate your own arm! You’re one of the oddest men I’ve ever known, Jean Valjean!” Valjean’s eyes widened at the comment and the tips of his ears turned pink. “You’re a convict, spent 19 years in Toulon, you’re strength is that of four oxen and yet you scorched yourself to make a point! You could have easily escaped.”

“There were too many. I wasn’t going to hurt anybody.”

“Oh please, you’re a felon; as if you care what you do so long as you get what you want,” Javert commented off handedly, once again digging in the box to get more alcohol to disinfect the burn. 

“People change Javert. I spent my time in prison and learned—”

“After prison, all you did was steal again, run from parole and lie to a town. Then you ran again, escaped life in prison and stole a child—”

“I didn’t steal her. I kept my promise with Fantine.”

“Hmph, that whore. She should have been carded off to jail along with you, but she died upon my arrival.”

“You wouldn’t have arrested her,” Valjean said, his voice barely above a whisper but his tone hard and definite.

“She attacked an innocent man. She deserved time in jail,” Javert said, taking the newly dampened cloth and dabbing the burn. Valjean bit his lip and quickly stopped himself from pulling away. He moaned quietly, the noise scratching against Javert’s ears like a promise. 

“She was dying. You wouldn’t have taken her,” Valjean managed out as Javert rubbed the cloth on the ragged flesh, fresh sweat beading on his temple. “For the same reasons you’re here now.”

Javert paused, but only briefly. He pulled the cloth away, tossing it to the side as he retrieved the ointment. Neither spoke for a while, Javert meticulously spreading the ointment on the burn, flinching inwardly at the terrible condition of the skin under his fingers. Valjean must have been mad, to be able to hold a burning chisel to his skin long enough to completely scorch it. The skin was blackened, peeled back in some places to revealed raw, enflamed skin. Javert was more careful over the revealed skin, barely touching the flesh, merely letting the ointment sit against the skin. Javert glanced up to see if he was hurting the convict and was surprised to see Valjean’s eyes closed tightly, his mouth a set line. It was a pained face yes, but the fact that Valjean now seemed vulnerable was what shocked the Inspector. His eyes were closed and he was leaning back in the chair, giving in to Javert’s ministrations, trusting the officer. The convict seemed so small, like a child.

Javert shook his head and continued. This was no innocent; this was a thief, a liar, a cold-blooded convict. Nothing, no amount of time or injury, would ever change that. 

“Just because I’m not cruel doesn’t mean justice won’t be dealt,” Javert said quietly, putting the ointment away. Valjean cracked his eyes open, staring at the Inspector with tired, bright eyes.

“You always were more merciful than the other guards,” Valjean commented, closing his eyes again. “I guess that’s why I always liked you the best.”

That comment shook something inside of Javert and he shivered. “I wasn’t merciful; the other guards were just abusing their power. They were in the wrong.” Valjean hummed thoughtfully as Javert took out the bandaging and got to work cutting and folding it. 

“You’re different than what people see you as Javert,” Valjean continued, eyes still closed and his postured relaxed. Javert took this time to let his eyes wander over the convict shamelessly. Over his white curly hair, his long lashes, the broad hairy chest, the brand on one shoulder and the stitchings on the other. This man, who’d been a consist much of Javert’s life, before him once more, virtually unchanged yet nearly unrecognizable. “You’re cold and stoic on the outside, upholding the law meticulously, resistant to any misdemeanor and sin; irreproachable.” Javert nodded curtly despite Valjean’s closed eyes. All that was true of his insides as well. “But you’re human, Javert.”

Valjean eyes opened and met Javert’s. The inspector kept his face in check, as blank and in control as it ought to be. “You can feel and make mistakes and change. All men do. You and I are no exception.”

“Men like you don’t change,” Javert said, eyes level with the old man’s. “You don’t change, nor will you ever. You might not be out murdering and raping people, but you’re a criminal at heart. You’re going to lie and steal and hide to get what you want. You’re doing it now, living under a fake name somewhere, living off of stolen money.” Valjean didn’t protest or deny anything so Javert pushed on. “It was the path you chose and you’ll continue down it until you’re dying day. Even if what you say is true and you’re acting as some benevolent philanthropist, that’s still stolen money you’re giving out, it’s still a fake name you’re living under and it’s still the law you’re running from. That will never change and neither will you. But that’s why I’m here; to arrest people like you, to keep this world from turning over into chaos.”

Valjean said nothing and it didn’t appear as though he was going to respond at all. Satisfied that the convict was going to stop making excuses, Javert got to work wrapping the burn wound. He quickly rolled the bandages around the wrist, tying it securely. 

Nodding at his work, Javert brought his hand to Valjean’s chin, tilting the older man’s face up and to the side to inspect the bruises lining the man’s jaw and cheeks. Valjean didn’t resist but kept his dark eyes trained to Javert’s face as his chin was tilted this way and that.

“You could have told them who I was,” Valjean said and Javert froze at hearing the man’s voice after he’d been silent for a long stretch of time. “You could have told the other officers who I was at the Gorbeu house and brought me to the station.”

“You were bleeding to death,” Javert said flat toned, hating having to repeat himself. “I’m not cruel.”

“But you didn’t even tell them who I was. I’m sure the Chief of Police could have called someone in to check on my injuries while I waited in chains.” Javert didn’t remove his hand from the man’s lightly bearded chin, staring at the convict, trying to decipher his words. “Instead you kept my identity a secret from your team and took me to your own home.”

“I wanted to take you to the hospital,” Javert offered but his words sounded flat and faint even to his own ears. Valjean’s words pounded in Javert’s head, his heart working too fast. Valjean’s skin suddenly burned under his fingers.

“You’re human Javert,” Valjean said. “You can fall prey to temptation; to sin…you can break the rules like anyone else when it suits your own needs…”

“That’s not true,” Javert muttered, eyes narrowing, but his argument choked in his throat as Valjean’s hand came up to Javert’s face.

Rough, callused fingers traced Javert’s face lightly, barely touching skin. The inspector’s spine tingled and he froze in place. He was too close to his man, this man was too exposed to be decent, this wasn’t…

“Is it so terrible to be human Javert?” Valjean whispered, his eyebrows scrunching together as his voice dripped sadness. “To be subject to change…”

“I cannot change,” Javert said automatically, not flinching away as Valjean’s fingers grew bolder, leaving scorching marks down the younger man’s cheek. “I uphold the law and the law is absolute. If I can fall and change as I will, then the law will fall to nothing. What then?”

“And what about me?” Valjean asked, his fingers moving down slowly, delicately tracing Javert’s lips. Javert reflexively opened his mouth and breathed deeply against those rough fingers. 

“You cannot change either. Criminals don’t change. You break the law repeatedly; therefore you’re in the wrong. You can’t break the law and be a good citizen.”

Valjean chuckled and leaned forward, his eyes still expressing deep sadness and sympathy. “Such black and white views. The world is so much more Javert.  
Please, just open your eyes…”

Javert’s head was swimming, the words having no logical meaning. Javert was scared. His heart hammered mercilessly but he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

This man was the only one to ever pull such emotions from him, either it be pity in Toulon, respect and guilt in M sur M, raging anger soon after, and now…what? Confusion, anxiety, doubt, excitement? What were these feelings burning low in Javert’s churning abdomen?

Valjean moved his hand to the back of Javert’s neck, fingers running briefly in the dark hair before pulling him close. 

Their lips touched tentatively and it was so strange. His mouth was warm against Javert’s. They didn’t move, merely allowing the skin of their lips to touch. Valjean’s finger’s combed into Javert’s hair, under his ponytail, and pushed closer.

Javert shut his eyes tight, the foreign feeling against his mouth too awkward to be enjoyable but the warmth radiating from the man was pleasant. 

Slowly the men moved their mouths against each other, kissing hesitantly. Javert moved his hands to Valjean’s broad shoulders, repositioning his mouth against the older man’s, wondering if this experience could turn pleasant.

Valjean opened his mouth and Javert followed suit, the two open mouthed kissing until Valjean licked Javert’s bottom lip. The inspector pulled away, his eyes meeting Valjean’s briefly before cautiously moving back, his heart pounding. Their lips met and Javert open his mouth against Valjean’s, the convict’s tongue touching his. It was strange and wet and sloppy, but as Javert explored and probed Valjean’s mouth with his own tongue, it become much more enjoyable. Javert moaned and pressed closer, rubbing his mouth against the older man’s with more enthusiasm, moistening and tasting every inch of Valjean’s mouth, hungry for it. Valjean’s mouth and tongue were hot and the feeling and sounds of Valjean were affecting Javert highly. His pants were getting uncomfortable, the posture causing an ache in his back, so hesitantly and without breaking the frantic kiss, Javert moved to sit in the convict’s lap.

“Javert…” Valjean moaned against Javert’s mouth, the breaths mingling shallowly from lack of air but the kissing was so good, neither wanted to end it. 

Valjean finally pulled his face away from Javert’s. Both men’s lips were red and puffy, shining from saliva, open mouthed and panting. 

“God,” Javert muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head against the strong shoulder of Valjean.

“It’s not a bad thing to see the world in color,” Valjean muttered, kissing Javert’s neck tenderly. “Don’t be afraid of it.” Valjean moved his kisses to Javert’s jaw, licking briefly and then sucking and nipping behind the grown man’s ear. Javert gasped and inched closer to Valjean but paused and tensed physically when his groin hit Valjean’s. The man was just as hard as Javert was.

Valjean sucked in a breath. Javert’s face was grabbed between two strong hands and forced up. Valjean connected their mouths again, hungrily attacking the younger man’s mouth. Javert groaned and let his hands wander down Valjean’s chest, gently touching the fresh stitchings, and then the brand. His long fingers ran down bulging muscle, hard and rough, teasing the burning skin, running through the coarse hair and rubbing over two hard nubs. Valjean groaned and kissed harder, their breaths mingling angrily as desperate pants and moans sounded between their bruised lips.

Javert adjusted his posture on Valjean’s lap, which elicited a throaty groan from the man. Liking the sound, Javert rocked his hips forward. The friction of both their growths rubbing together drove the men wild, until they were rutting against each other uncontrollably, threatening to tip over the chair they were sitting in. Javert’s hands tightly gripped Valjean’s hips and slammed into him at a frantic pace, their lips never leaving each other.

Quickly their breaths got hectic, Javert whining wantonly into Valjean’s open mouth and Valjean groaning in equal desperation. Finally, as there groins pressed against each other, the two cried out faintly, muffled by the other’s mouths. The kissing grew languid and gentle as the rocking of their hips stilled. Damp spots stained the front of their pants between them, equally satisfying and uncomfortable.

Their hearts pounded and their breaths came out in hot puffs as they slowly lowered from the animalistic high. Javert moved his face from Valjean’s and rested his forehead against the man’s damp shoulder, sweat and musk and heat radiating from the strong man.

Valjean was a criminal.

He was a thief.

He was supposed to be in jail.

All these thoughts were true and a part of Javert’s brain knew these as hard facts that needed to be acted upon. This was supposed to be shameful. But that rational part of the Inspector’s brain was slowly melting away in the heat of the man below him, whose chest rose and fell rhythmically, reliably. Javert closed his eyes and reveled in the feeling of the rise and fall, over and over, trying to match his own breathing to Valjean’s.

The convict’s hands moved delicately through Javert’s hair and down his back, rubbing the man’s coat soothingly. A convict wouldn’t be soothing. He’d be harsh and rough, pushing Javert away after this. A thief would have taken what he wanted by force and then ran. But this man, whose eyes had held such sympathy and honesty, whose hands were hot and gentle was not…could not be…

The fog of Javert’s mind instantly cleared as he heard a metallic click and felt something hard against his wrist. He lifted his head quickly to see Valjean’s eyes pleading and miserable, desperate for understanding. Javert looked over his shoulder to see his own wrist handcuffed to one of the table’s wooden legs.  
His head snapped back to Valjean’s as the man quickly, yet gently, pushed the inspector off his lap and backed away, snatching his coat as he hurried to put enough distance between them so the police man couldn’t lunge at him.

“Valjean!” Javert snarled, his eyes murderous. “Get this off me!” He’d been distracted, happily sated, his mind filled with more of this man’s lies as his thieving hands deceived him. How could he have let himself fall so low?! “Valjean!!”

“I’m sorry Javert,” Valjean said, his face pained as he watched Javert struggle against the restraint, desperately reaching out to Valjean. He looked like a caged animal that’d been kicked. “Really but…I need to take care of Cosette. I couldn’t escape the Gorbeu house because of my injury but I can’t go back with you now…not yet…I’m sorry.”

“Valjean! Valjean!!” Javert screamed as Valjean opened the front door, quickly slipping on his coat. Javert pulled fiercely, dragging the heavy table an inch but Valjean slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Javert fumed, his heart racing angrily, his head pounding like it would split open at any moment.  
He’d slipped. He’d nearly believed in that snake; nearly fell backward, onto a path with no way back. Just like back in M sur M, when Madeleine’s lies and the Paris reply had nearly made Javert doubt himself, nearly believed that the convict was innocent. But things never changed and neither did that man. He’d lied and stole and ran, just like Javert knew he would.

Javert cheeks burned, shame scorching his insides at how he’d let that man touch and toy with him, the sounds he’d made and the way he’d acted. The wet patch on the front of his pants itched and burned, like a brand to mark his failure. He was a complete disgrace. This wouldn’t sit. Javert quickly searched his pockets with his free hand, producing the key to the cuffs. His hands shook angrily, and he cried out in frustration as he struggled to unlock himself from the table.  
That man would pay. He’d find Valjean and no mercy would be shown, no matter what the man said or did. He should have hauled the man to the station right when he’d seen his face. But it was too late for should-haves. As Javert finally freed himself and burst out his apartment, he swore the next time he saw that convict, he’d arrest him without a second thought. He swore it to the God he didn’t believe in and knew nothing the man did would change his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> These two are such complicated characters and I just adore writing for them. Oh the angst!! Haha Thanks for reading ^^ Please please please, review! Really would make my day!


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